


Detectives Get Sick, Too

by DonnaClaireHolmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 03:24:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7083208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnaClaireHolmes/pseuds/DonnaClaireHolmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"can you ever imagine sherlock being so sick to a point where he’s delirious and having sort of hallucinations but he thinks he’s in his mind palace so he keeps talking aloud and such and anyone around him is like ?? and maybe john is there or something and he’s the only one who realizes what’s going on."<br/>~sherlock.tumblr.com</p>
<p>Everyone thinks he’s invincible, unassailable, a machine. But even the great London detective gets ill now and again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detectives Get Sick, Too

A couple of years ago, before The Fall, there was a case in the Highlands that peaked Sherlock Holmes' interest. The case isn’t that important to this story, something about a missing painting or whatever. It had the consulting detective and his companion, John Watson, scaling the mountains in order to get a better picture of where the thief could’ve ran off to. John prepared for the snowy weather, dawning multiple layers of jumpers, a thick scarf Mrs. Hudson had knitted for him, a hat, goggles, gloves, and very thick hiking gloves. You could tell it was an effort for him to pick up his feet, however he managed to keep up with his friend. 

His somewhat idiotic friend who though he would be completely fine in his normal trenchcoat and thin blue scarf. He did remember his leather gloves, but they were no match for the below zero weather of the mountains. Sherlock stumbled and nearly fell in the snow. He stayed there on his hands and knees, trying to catch his breath. “Sherlock! Are you alright?” No response. “Come on, we got what we needed here. Let’s go home.” John helped Sherlock up and held his arm around his shoulder to support him. He was shocked to see Sherlock’s face; as white as the snow, with sunken eyes and blue lips. “Christ…… Alright, let’s get going.”

They made the trip home in record time. Sherlock hadn’t said a word since the trip, and his condition seemed to worsen. With Mrs Hudson’s help, John was able to get Sherlock into his bed, covered with a good dozen or so blankets. His temperature was a hundred and three. However, the strangest thing was that Sherlock always had his eyes open. He wouldn’t sleep, he would just stare at his ceiling or at his wall (if John got him to sit up to eat or drink anything). “Molly? Yeah, hi, it’s John. Listen, Sherlock’s got a bit of a fever over here and, well, he’s not moving or talking. Could you just…..do you mind coming over? Thanks.”

Within a few minutes Molly had arrived with a duffle bag of supplies, including heating pads, an i.v. stand with fluids, and about twenty different fever-reducing medications. Sherlock didn’t even flinch when she placed the needle in his arm. The first time he moved on his own was when Molly went to reach for his jaw to hold it open to give him some of the pills. “I think I can manage this part on my own now, thank you.” He whispered as he grabbed her wrist. Sherlock took the pills dry and closed his eyes. 

Molly and John gave each other a look of concern and then stared at him. “What is it?” “Well, Sherlock, you’ve been laying there with your eyes open for hours now.” John answered.  “And?” He replied as if nothing happened. His face was still ghostly pale but his lips went from blue to, well, ghostly pale as well. “How are you feeling?” Molly inquires as she checks his pulse and feels his forehead with the back of her hand. Sherlock tries to wave her off and attempt to stand up. “I’m fine! Just leave me….” He falls, hard. Molly just missed him and he slammed his head on his bedframe going down. 

When Sherlock wakes up, he’s in his full suit, laying on top of his bed which is completely made. He goes out to the main room where there are notecards systematically floating in a circle. Inside the circle, he notices the words on the cards (like “Highlands” and “painting”) He starts grabbing at them and pinning them to the wall. He creates some sort of spider web with the cards, and just as he puts it all together he hears something. 

“Sherlock? Sherlock, come on mate, wake up.” It’s John. Sherlock opens his eyes and he’s in an ICU bed with multiple machines hooked up to him. “Oh thank goodness! He’s awake.” Mrs Hudson cries tears of joy from a chair in the corner. A doctor walks in with a clipboard and two students. One must be a fan of their work because she blushes at Sherlock and attempts to hide behind her fellow student. 

“Well, Mister Holmes, you took quite a fall. Along with a concussion, you have severe hypothermia. You’ve been in a medically induced coma for two days while we brought your body temperature back up. We’re afraid you’re still not stable yet so we have to keep you for a few more days, then you’ll be back to solving crimes, and whatever else Doctor Novak here knows you from.” The girl blushes more, and Sherlock smirks at her, which of course makes her practically run out of the room.

Several boring days pass and Sherlock is finally cleared to go back home, but on bedrest. “Minimal movement, if at all necessary.” The doctor’s words rang in Sherlock’s head. The first day home was pure hell. Sherlock was upright against the backboard of his bed, even when sleeping. He spent most of the day in his mind palace, back with the flashcards, however this time he decided to stay in his bed and lay them in front of him. If things didn’t make sense, or if he started to feel the reality of his concussion seeping in, he would throw a card, or a cup or whatever was near him (all the pill bottles from the doctor and such) and grunt loudly. No one was there to hear him so what did he care, right?  
Wrong. After the third pill bottle to hit the wall, John came barging in. “What the hell is going on in here?” He starts to pick up the bottles and cards. “How….” Sherlock hadn’t really spoken much lately so his voice was raspy and it was clear that he was in pain, “How are you here?” “Um, well, I live here. Remember?” “You can’t be here.” “How do you mean?” “I’m in my mind palace.”

John chuckled before replacing and re-inserting another i.v. of fluids that they had gotten from the hospital. Sherlock felt the pinch this time. He never feels things in his mind palace. It’s like an out of body experience. Once again he tried to stand up but failed, and ended up sitting on the edge of his bed. “John.” “Hmm?” “I don’t think these medications are worki…..” Sherlock fell back, passed out from a combination of the fluids and cold medicine that could potentially kill a horse. 

There was no possible way that he couldn’t be in his mind palace now. He was back in the ICU room from a few days before. The difference this time was that he wasn’t hooked up to any machines. In fact, there were no machines or monitors in the room. Sherlock sat up in his bed, fingers poised in front of his lips, and tried to formulate a conclusion to the case. “Why are you mumbling like that.” He opened his eyes to find John in a chair across the room, typing away at his laptop, no doubt working on another blog post. 

“I don’t understand, John, how could you possibly be in my mind palace again?” “Sherlock, you’re sick. The chances of you hallucinating are far higher than you being able to go to your mind palace in this state.” “Then what about the case?” “The case in the Highlands? I solved it the night we got home!” John smirked. Sherlock, now realizing what was going on, took it upon himself to do his body a favor and get some sleep.


End file.
